


Offerings to History

by sister_coyote



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-20
Updated: 2010-12-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 20:03:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/141235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sister_coyote/pseuds/sister_coyote
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He pinned down his history, and waited for the pain to bleed away.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tel/gifts).



> Assume spoilers for everything except Cryoburn.

Later, when David was older—after the Invasion, the Massacre, the Revolt, all the things with signifying capitals that would tear through his life—later, when he was Duv and not David, when he was a scholar and not a child-revolutionary, he would remember his early childhood for all the things he had taken for granted. Wealth, family, peace, identity: all things he couldn’t see not for their absence but because they were too close to bring into focus.

Looking back, he could see the signs in his memories, when he’d been just a tiny child. Toys and books, plentiful on the shelves. Comconsole games, educational ones provided by his parents and joyfully noneducational ones bought on the sly by fond relatives. Flowers in vases, art on the walls, and (high luxury in the cramped quarters of the dome) a good-sized yard to play in. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, cousins first- second- and third-, removed once, twice or not at all.

It was only in the absence of that (Aunt Rebecca’s death the shocking first of eventual many, money worn away in resistance and revolt) that he finally saw it and recognized what had been.

You didn’t realize it was history until after you’d lived through it. And then, then, when it was history, you could, just possibly, pin it down like a butterfly to a board, and bleed the pain out of it, and study it at leisure.

He pinned down his history, and waited for the pain to bleed away.

* * *

The temptation to pull all his hair out—possibly one hair at a time, with tweezers—always came to Duv when he was three-quarters through with a paper. Always. Had done ever since he was an undergraduate at the University of Solstice, and probably would continue to do so long after he obtained his doctorate.

He reminded himself of this in order to keep from actually pulling his hair out, but somehow the knowledge of it didn’t do much for the urge.

“You know what you need,” Kiron said, his thick accent rippling the words into something almost like music.

“What do I need,” Duv asked, though it wasn’t quite a question. He didn’t try to make his tone inviting, but two years as Kiron’s flatmate had taught him that wouldn’t discourage.

“You need to get out.” Duv swivel his chair around to face Kiron, who was sprawled on the couch surrounded by reference materials.

“Contrary to popular opinion,” Duv said drily, “alcohol doesn’t actually enhance one’s writing abilities.” But he was already willing to be convinced, and he could see that Kiron knew he was willing to be convinced. How odd, to have someone able to see through him like that.

“Pssh.” Kiron rolled his eyes. “I don’t mean go out and get drunk, idiot. I mean get your head away from that before you put it—your head, I mean—through the comconsole screen. You tie yourself up in knots. You untie, you’ll be able to finish it.” Kiron’s grin had an air of you-know-I’m-right, a certain ineffable confidence.

And the more Duv studied, the more he realized exactly how _much_ confidence Kiron must have. His musical accent marked him as a member of the Greek-speaking minority, and he was from the plains country in Voreis District. A greekie hick, some of the other students said, and they didn’t mean it kindly.

Duv had an accent, too, but while he didn’t quite drop it—he still sounded Komarran, and probably always would—he minimized it, just as he hadn’t quite dropped his name but he had modified it. But Kiron kept his accent, and the more he was harassed, the thicker he made it. Odd courage. And fortitude, of the same kind that had propelled him out of the backcountry and into an undergraduate scholarship, and from there into a fellowship in chemistry.

That, Duv admitted to himself, was probably more than half of why he’d kept Kiron as a flatmate even after his combined personal fund and graduate stipend made it financially unnecessary.

Well, that and the fact that Kiron was one of the only people capable of dragging him out for the evening when he needed it.

They went to a bar on Tennyris Street, a place cheerful without being especially rowdy. After two rounds of beers and a plate of little… fried… somethings, Kiron propped his elbows on the bar and said, “You know, I never did ask you. Barrayaran history? Why?”

“Why chemistry?” he countered.

Kiron laughed. “Fertilizer,” he said, and then continued, “—among other things. My whole family’s farmers, my da and his da and his da’s da. I didn’t much want to be, so I figured,” an eloquent shrug, “approach growing things from the other direction, yeah?” He trailed his fingers through the condensed water on the bar-top. “Plus I’m good at it.”

“I’m good at history,” Duv said. “And I like it.” His tone was quelling in a way that he knew perfectly well wouldn't quell Kiron.

“But why Barrayaran? I mean, you’re not from Barrayar. And there’s a big galaxy out there. Must be a reason, yeah?”

Despite his broad accent and forthright attitude, Kiron was surprisingly good at knowing exactly when to ask the right question. With two beers in him and a paper gnawing at the back of his mind, Duv said, “Well, I’m an Imperial citizen whether I like it or not, so I might as well know something about it.” And then he bit off, because the bitterness in his voice was saying more than he meant it to.

But Kiron just grunted and nodded, and said, “Well, hey, if you figure out what makes the Vor tick, let me know. ‘Cause your guess is at least as good as mine.”

“I will,” Duv said. “Cheers.”


	2. Chapter 2

Somehow, he’d thought that applying to the Barrayaran Imperial Service Academy would be more… archaic. Swearing a blood oath, maybe. Some kind of rite of ordeal.

Something more than a comconsole application four pages long, full of bland fields to fill in. Full name, birth name, birth record, Imperial tax identification number, address, educational history (those boxes had to stretch and stretch to accept his early education, undergraduate education, postgraduate education… he would be an odd applicant in more ways than one).

The one complication came when selecting his district of birth. The long string of Vor-names scrolled downward, plus a handful of oddball districts—newly-terraformed colonies on the south continent, even Sergyar. But not Komarr.

Technically, technically, Komarrans were now being accepted. Technically. The ruling (signed by Vorkosigan, a name that still filled him with such a conflict of feelings it blanked his mind, static on the line) had clearly gone through before the application could be updated. He had to type his Komarran Sector of birth manually, two lines down from his birth name.

(”David Galen.” “Komarr.” What chances he would actually be accepted?)

(Which did he fear more, that his application would be denied, or that it would be accepted?)

He hadn’t seen Kiron in two years, not since Kiron had gotten his Ph.D. and gone on to work in industry. Hadn’t thought much of him, honestly, except for brief fond reminiscences about late-night dinners after long nights of study. But now, looking at the application, he thought of Kiron: his thick uncompromising accent, his sideways grin. The way he’d gone from a rural town where he knew everyone to a big city that spoke a language he had only an imperfect grasp of.

Barrayaran, yes, but even less like the Vor-his-rulers than was Duv, because Duv, at least, had known what it was to be born to privilege.

He pressed Submit. In a remarkable show of anticlimax, the application merely churned for a moment, then presented him with a time and place for an in-person interview in Vorbarr Sultana.

He closed the application, and went to make travel arrangements.

* * *

It was a month after his interview, and far longer than the application process should have taken, before his Academy intake tests were scheduled. Something had gone on behind the scenes, there, some negotiation between the idea of a Galen and the idea of the New Order. Duv suspected he would never know precisely what, but, as he tendered his resignation to the shocked tenure board at the College of Belgravia, he felt at peace with that. Even with the distance of time, one could never quite see history whole. Here in the thick of it, there was no chance.


	3. Chapter 3

It was one of the strangest realizations of his life, discovering that he was on _social_ terms with a Vorkosigan.

He’d come to expect and even (gods help him) enjoy _working_ with Miles, as unrestful as that was. Miles was quick and bright and dangerous and useful as a live electrical circuit, and he was never boring, and rarely stupid, and when he was stupid it was an interesting stupid. Like hot pepper flakes in one’s dinner. Too much burnt the mouth and upset the digestion, but a little could wake one up in a not wholly unpleasant fashion.

But being _friends_ with a Vorkosigan was something else entirely. Not something he would have chosen. Only somehow, bit by bit, piece by piece….

…he’d wound up here, in Vorkosigan house, enjoying Ma Kosti’s remarkable tidbits and drinking a very fine red wine. And it wasn’t the first time, either.

(A very fine red wine that Miles—he wasn’t sure how he felt about being on first-name terms, for that matter—was twirling in its glass by its stem, as though its market price _wasn’t_ probably over two hundred marks. Although that was a little unfair: the Galens had no doubt had a winecellar at least as fine, and had treated it no doubt with a similar casualness. He’d just still been small enough to think of wine as something vile at the time it had been sold off to support the revolt.)

Duv knew he wasn’t the best at small talk, and so the conversation trailed off quickly. Miles, clearly casting about for something to say, finally struck on, “You like history.”

“I studied it for eight years,” Duv said drily, “so yes, I’d say that’s a safe assumption.”

“Then you’ll like this,” Miles said, and bounded to his feet with a disgusting overabundance of energy.

“You know, I’m not one of your hangers-on, who inexplicably follow you everywhere,” Duv said, but he was already getting to his feet.

“The attic. You’ll like this, I promise,” Miles said, although whether his enthusiasm was actually for the attic or for a topic of conversation Duv couldn’t tell.

At first, Duv hadn’t the faintest ideas why Miles would want to show him the attic. A broken lamp, a worn sofa, vague furniture-like shapes under dustcloths….

Miles stopped, knelt, and unlocked a chest. From it he pulled out a saddle. “My grandmother’s,” he said. “I know you must have studied her, you studied modern Barrayaran history, Princess-and—”

“—Countess Olivia Vobarra Vorkosigan,” Duv finished automatically. His eyes fixed themselves on Miles’ hands—Miles’ bare hands with all their skin-oils and probably even traces of wine and, and snack tidbits—

— _bare_ on the leather and velvet of the saddle.

Somewhere within him, eight years’ formal training rose up and, like an angel of vengeance, or possibly just of history, spread wings within him.

“My grandfather had it made for her, this would have been after the war but, of course, before Mad Yuri’s—”

Duv couldn’t take his eyes off of Miles’ fingers (his unwashed fingers! His unwashed, oily, wine-stained—) rubbing the already-balding velvet… he could swear he could see the nap thinning even as he spoke….

“—And my mother didn’t like to ride, so—”

Duv couldn’t stand it for one more second. “It ought to be in a museum!” he interrupted.

“What?”

“That saddle! Good god, what else do you have up here, a rusty sword of Phaetos Vorbarra the second? An original folio of _Tam Lin_? The bridle of Lord Midnight?”

“Well, not _Phaetos_ Vorbarra, but—”

“Priceless!” Duv managed. “Historical artifact! Why you haven’t catalogued all this—you wouldn’t even have to do it yourself, any museum would fall over itself to—”

“So bored schoolchildren can spend two seconds looking at it?” Miles asked. He turned the saddle around and touched the monogram lightly. “If it was someone who would appreciate it, then maybe, but… to put something like this away where it won’t ever be touched, where no one will really look at it, that would truly kill it.”

Frustration bubbled up in the back of Duv’s throat. He prided himself on unflappability, but Miles, Miles had a _talent_ for getting under his skin. “Then an archive, at least. It needs—acid-free wrappings, climate control, limited exposure to oxygen—”

“If I could find a woman who loved to ride, I’d have it reconditioned for her use,” Miles said thoughtfully. “If I’m lucky enough, some future Countess Vorkosigan….”

“For _use_? On a _horse_?” Remarkable, that sense of wanting to tear his own hair out was coming back to him. It’d been fifteen years since graduate school, and yet the urge was familiar as an old friend.

“It’s a saddle,” Miles said. “That’s what it’s _for_.” His expression was all innocence, but there was a glimmer in his eye and a faint lifting of one corner of his mouth that told Duv he was being wound up.

His resolution to not let Miles wind him up lasted approximately two minutes, at which point Miles said, “Well, here’s something you might like better,” and pulled out a parchment charter signed by Dorca Vorbarra the Just.

It was like entering a fugue state. Duv was aware of saying things like “the oils on your hands” and “do you have any idea how much corrosion even oxygen” and “temperature fluctuations,” until Miles was laughing and promising to do something about that, at least.

“We can manage a climate-controlled document room, I’m sure,” he said, as Duv ran out of steam. (Only temporarily. All he had to do was look around and see—a whole pile of swords, all on the _floor_ , some half out of their sheaths and all looking like they were over a century at the very least, and if there wasn’t rust starting he’d eat his Horus eyes—to feel the engine revving up again.) “You look so betrayed. Who are we betraying, here?” Miles’ hand settled on the saddle again. “Not my grandmother, surely. She’d agree that this should go to someone else who loved riding.”

“Who are we—?” Duv spluttered. " _History_. That’s whose behalf I’m offended on.”

“Ah,” Miles said, a little glitter in his eyes. Damn the hyperactive little monster, anyway. “ _Now_ I know what god you worship.”

Duv did not quite threaten to throttle Miles, but it was a close thing.

They were still arguing the point as they descended the stairs (and Duv tried to remember when he’d last felt relaxed enough to just argue, like this), and it was probably just as well he was distracted by that because it didn’t give him time to overthink what came next.

Which was that they ran straight into Viceroy Count Aral Vorkosigan, former Regent former Prime Minister former Subduer-Invader(-Butcher?) of Komarr.

Walking down the hallway in his shirtsleeves, whistling to himself, as comfortable as… well: as comfortable as a man in his own home.

Duv felt his tirade die in the back of his throat. Miles, for his part, beamed. “Father.”

“Miles,” Vorkosigan said. Duv had never seen him up close, in person before. Up close, yes, in photographs, on the news, in recordings and holos. In person, yes, across a courtyard or at a podium far away. But both together, never. He was older than Duv had thought, his hair (badger-streaked when Duv had been at university, gunmetal when Duv enlisted, a timeline of Barrayar in the form of one man) almost entirely silver. But even at seventy-whatever, he had presence, Presence, the kind Duv didn’t have and was rather relieved he didn’t have.

“How long are you home?” Miles asked, and his sudden reserve did nothing to hide his eagerness. (Duv’s sudden involuntary thought of his own father—not regret, not grief, just a faint wistfulness—was barely a pinprick, too sharp not to notice, too small to pay much heed.)

“Just the week. Some affairs better taken care of in person.” And then the Viceroy’s eyes settled on Duv, and they were not old at all, but sharp, dark, thoughtful. Not at all like Miles’ quicksilver grey.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Father, this is Commodore Duv Galeni. Duv, this is the Count my father.”

As though they weren’t already intensely, painfully aware of each other, though they had never met. The creator of the New Order and its symbol. Well.

Vorkosigan held out his hand. Duv shook it. Was he shaking hands with the Viceroy the Count, or with Aral Vorkosigan? Or was there no difference? Whoever it was, he had a strong grip.

“Duv was just saying we ought to catalog the things in the attic. He was quite adamant on the matter,” Miles chirped. For the second time in ten minutes, Duv repressed the urge to strangle him.

“Were you?” Vorkosigan said, with a little smile. “You’re probably quite right.”

And, because some part of Duv would always be a historian first, what he said was ,”The documents, at least. Paper and parchment are so fragile—”

“And what would you recommend for storage?” Vorkosigan asked, with every indication of being interested, so Duv—bemused, baffled, pleased—began to list the parameters for safe storage of old and fragile documents.


	4. Chapter 4

It was difficult, even with the perspective of years—perhaps _especially_ with the perspective of years—to reconcile Aunt Rebecca with the Martyr Councilor Rebecca Galen. She’d died when he was only a child, and—and until her death had been one of a gaggle of older relatives who he’d loved with a bemused fondness, and whose presence he had taken wholly for granted. As children do. Vague memories of a tall sturdy woman with a tired face, smiling at him and ruffling his hair—of Founder’s Day gifts of books, wrapped in shiny paper, “Say thank you, David”—of playing on the floor with (why did he remember _this_ so vividly?) With a plastic model of Regiola Dome’s famously complex bubble-car tubes while his older relatives talked politics.

In other circumstances, such old prosaic memories might have been wholly overwritten by the drama of the Massacre, but Rebecca the Martyr had so little to do with the aunt he’d known as to have been a separate person.

Which one was he offering to, now?

“It’s traditional to burn the offering with something, twigs or leaves or bark, from where the dead lived. When they lived,” Miles said, helpfully, at his elbow.

“I do know that,” Duv said, but without any heat. He knew, now, finally, that Miles wasn’t offering advice out of disrespect for his own knowledge, but because the hyperactive little monster couldn’t keep his mouth shut for two minutes.

“I always used sugar maple for my grandfather,” Miles went on—he was even worse than usual when he was nervous, more’s the pity—”but I don’t know what you’d use on Komarr.”

No forests on Komarr. Something that Barrayarans tended to view as pitiable, and then Komarrans rejected their pity with extreme prejudice, and then Barrayarans got angry because here they were trying to be sympathetic, and—no.

“We do have gardens _in_ the domes,” Duv said. And, because he _had_ known (you did not serve as a Barrayaran soldier for over a decade without learning all the traditions and superstitions of the death-offering), Duv pulled from his pocket the little paper sack of dried marigold blossoms and leaves.

(A memory: his aunt and his mother in the dining room, drinking coffee. Between them, a huge bunch of marigolds, bright in the soft light through the window.)

A Barrayaran memorial would have a tripod or even a pedestal, with a place to put an offering bowl. Perhaps even a bowl of bronze or stone for those who did not bring their own. On Komarr there was no such, so Duv knelt and put the copper bowl on the marble flagstones at the foot of the plaque listing the names of the dead.

Into the bowl went the marigold petals, dried rust-colored, and the leaves, and then the lock of his own hair. Was this why soldiers on Barrayar wore their hair that little bit longer than soldiers from most other worlds, that they could always cut a death-offering?

Miles handed him the lit taper in silence, now that the offering was out and poured, and then stepped back. The marigold petals burned with a faintly sweet herbal smoke, so that the acrid whiff of burning hair cut through them. Sweet bark to sweeten the smoke, also part of the tradition…. Broken cinnamon added piece by piece would serve, and did serve.

 _I’m sorry I don’t know who you were as a person,_ Duv thought to his aunt’s name, cut deep in the brass of the memorial plaque. _I don’t even know if you would understand why I made the decisions I did, or if you would despise me for them. But I do remember you. As something other than a symbol._

As a remembrance it wasn’t much, but it would have to do. Duv picked up the bowl (just barely warmed by the brief conflagration). On Barrayar the grey residue of ashes, poured out on the grave, would be washed away by wind and rain. Here beneath the dome, it would be the automated street-cleaners that would suck them up, but then, that was probably just appropriate.

He got to his feet and stepped back until he was once again standing next to Miles

Miles looked up at him, those shockingly sharp grey eyes, the incisive eyes that Duv knew he’d inherited from his mother. Nephew of the Martyr, son of the Butcher, here on soil that was at once Komarran and Barrayaran—while the Emperor of Barrayar married the scion of Toscane. In a few generations, how much difference would remain?

“One more thing,” he said, and Miles nodded, and waited as Duv took an envelope from his pocket and tucked it into a pile of similar envelopes. Komarran funerary offerings, different in form and yet so alike in sentiment.

Not so much difference, after all. He'd tried to forget David, but David was Duv's root. No need to deny that just to see what Duv's branches would be. No need to deny Rebecca in order to love Delia. No need....

"Now," he said, "let's go."


End file.
